Wimbledon who? C'mon, get with the program: Wimbledon Green. The Greatest Comic Book Collector in the World.

Diana Schutz, my favorite Dark Horse editor, and I were having coffee in Milwaukie Tuesday when she made the point that graphic novels, at their best, use words and pictures to convey important and original ideas.

Exhibit A: Seth's Wimbledon Green.

In a mere 128 pages, Seth -- a Canadian cartoonist best known for Palooka-ville -- has pretty much nailed the eccentricity, amorality and complexity of the obsessive comic-book collector.

Wimbledon Green is a character straight off the Monopoly board, a mysterious figure who climbed to the top of the collecting heap when he stumbled upon the famous Wilbur R. Webb collection.

In these pages, he is pursued and psycho-analyzed by his envious or jealous rivals, including Chip Corners, "Very Fine" Findley, "Ashcan" Kemp, Nelson H. Bindle, Daddy Doats and Jason, an incorrigible thief. Seth describes Wimbledon's frantic hunt for Green Ghost #1, the Holy Grail of comics, and traces the roots of his obsession with a marvelous eye and a wicked sense of humor.

The tale is riddled with inside jokes, but you don't need to know anything about Metropolis Comics, the Mile High collection or pedigree books to appreciate the satire.

Better yet, Seth successfully lampoons the hobby even as he masterfully captures why collecting is so addictive. Let me end with the narrative on a page, early in Wimbledon's life, in which the collector describes his meeting with an old book dealer:

The years that followed were among the best of my life. Roads that stretched to the horizon. The only thing pulling you on was the promise of what lay ahead. Maybe a farmhouse full of paper was just around the corner. Or perhaps, in the next village, an attic piled with old books.

On one long stretch of rarely traveled road, I came upon a surprise. A large sprawling barn converted into a used bookstore. Thousands of books -- loosely organized. In the hours I was there, I saw not a single customer. Only the ancient bookseller and his one employee.

I acquired a very reasonably priced stack of rare items that day. A short chat with the old man filled me in:

"30 years in town and then we lost the building. We've been here for 10, but not for much longer, I think. The world is changing ... and my time is running out. I'm 85, ha ha."

Later, my mind drifted to the dozens of similar old booksellers across the country. Each of them huddled among their piles of musty books and papers. It seemed to me, somehow, a noble calling. These people were the last stop on a road to oblivion. Only by reaching out and grabbing had they managed to save precious artifacts from being lost. I felt a deep gratitude and kinship with them.

Six months later, on the return drive, I noted, with sadness, that the great barn-store was gone.